


Coitus Reservatus

by LiraDonne, mydarlingbenedict (LiraDonne)



Series: Coitus Reservatus Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry!John, Dirty Talk, Gift Fic, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, breaking the sex mold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraDonne/pseuds/LiraDonne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraDonne/pseuds/mydarlingbenedict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the absence of interesting cases and bloody body parts, Sherlock Holmes was bored. He needed something to occupy his mind, since John was mean and wouldn't let him blow up the flat.</p><p>What better way to challenge his vast mental resources than engaging in a bit of orgasm denial?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This fic is part of the Breaking the Sex Mold fic exchange. It was written for the lovely ConsultingDepressive, whose prompt asked for the following: "Orgasm denial (days, couple weeks, etc) for Sherlock, not as part of a "D/s scene" but as a means for Sherlock to develop trust for John and to prove to himself that he is capable of doing something that still exerts his great mental strength even as it frustrates his awakened sexual desires to the point of distraction, and as a way for John to show his affection/ love/ concern/ care (doesn't have to be actually said, no words of love need to be actually exchanged). I am going with the premise that, yes, Sherlock has abstained from sex for several years but is neither a virgin nor completely unaffected by sexual desire (having explored it in younger years), and has clearly developed both desire and feelings for John."
> 
> I overbooked myself and am running a bit late on this fic, but I wanted to submit the first part for ConsultingDepressive to get a taste. The rest SHOULD be up within the next day or two. Hopefully. ConsultingDepressive is free to yell at me for being late with this, because I've had a month to do it. But I do hope she'll like the end result.
> 
> WARNING: I have no Beta or Britpick, so please excuse any mistakes you might find.

John was trying to enjoy a nice evening in. He had a new medical book in his lap, a new password on his laptop which would take Sherlock at least three guesses to figure out, and a hot cup of tea to sip. It ought to have been peaceful.  
  
Except that when one lived with Sherlock Holmes, 'peaceful' was the very last word one could hope to use to describe anything.  
  
"I want you to bring me to the brink of orgasm, repeatedly over the space of a few hours, without granting me release," said a familiar baritone voice.  
  
John hadn't been drinking his tea, for which he was grateful, but he still managed to choke a little. It took a solid seventeen seconds of coughing and wheezing before his lungs were clear enough for him to breathe properly, and he could look up into bored grey-blue eyes and see that Sherlock was serious.  
  
"Um," said John, because it was taking him a little while to process this. In his own defence, he'd just been reading about ulcers. Bit hard to switch tracks so suddenly. "Right. So, tonight, you want to--"  
  
"No. Now, John. If you'd been listening, you would have noticed that I already said this will take several hours. If we start later tonight, you'll fall asleep before I'm satisfied." His tone, combined with the stony expression on his face, left no room for argument.  
  
"Ah. Of course." So much for a bit of reading. Sherlock was bored, and if John refused to entertain him immediately, he'd be putting their flat at an elevated risk of being blown up. Mrs. Hudson would kill them. Only one question, then: "Your room or mine?"  
  
For the first time since this absurd conversation had started, Sherlock's mouth quirked up into something resembling a smile. "Mine," he said. Before John could add anything else, the infuriating wanker walked away, shredding clothes as he went.  
  
~  
  
They'd been shagging for about a month. It started predictably: a bit of adrenaline and craziness after a case. It was fairly run-of-the-mill, at first--a jilted ex-lover named Joel Hastings killed his ex and her new boyfriend out of jealousy. It only took Sherlock thirty seconds of staring at the crime scene to figure out whodunit, but when they located Hastings at his favourite bar and tried to arrest him, the bugger ran off. NSY gave chase, Hastings pulled a gun and grabbed the nearest person (John), and held the gun to John's head. Sherlock, who was usually the very image of control, could do little but stare and panic, afraid that any action he took could make Hastings pull the trigger.  
  
Luckily, Lestrade was with them (for once) and knocked Hastings out while the assailant’s attention was on Sherlock. Everyone escaped unscathed, Hastings was arrested, and the case was wrapped up.  
  
But when they went home, Sherlock slammed John against the wall just inside the door and admitted that he couldn't stand to see John in danger like that, so close to death. Sherlock blamed himself, of course. John told him he was an idiot, they kissed, and the next thing they knew, they were struggling to make it behind closed doors before they wound up shagging right on the stairs—which wouldn’t necessarily have been a problem, except that Mrs. Hudson could potentially interrupt things.  
  
The sex had become a regular occurrence since then, except for Sherlock's brief bouts of abstinence during cases; just as with food and sleep, Sherlock didn't want distractions while he was working, and he claimed that John was the greatest distraction of all. It was incredibly flattering, when Sherlock put it that way, so John didn't try to change his mind. (Though John may or may not have masturbated three times more frequently than usual during cases.)  
  
So far, though, it had all been very vanilla. The location varied (beds, tables, the sofa, against the wall), but the act itself was fairly "normal"—plenty of preparation before anal penetration, consistent use of unflavoured lube and non-textured condoms, no toys, no dirty talk, no roleplaying games, and no hints that what they were doing wasn't enough for Sherlock.  
  
Knowing Sherlock's personality as he did, John wasn't entirely surprised that Sherlock wanted a little something more. If anything, he was shocked that it took Sherlock this long to speak up. John may have perfectly been satisfied with 100% vanilla sex (or as close to it as two men in a sexual relationship could get), but he wasn't entirely opposed to certain non-vanilla things if Sherlock wanted to try them. Orgasm denial was definitely far from the kinkiest thing he'd heard of (he’d been in the army, for God’s sake), and if Sherlock was into this, then John was more than willing to give it to him.  
  
There was only a brief instant of hesitation (mostly born out of confusion) before John chugged the rest of his tea and followed Sherlock into the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him in case someone decided to pop by for a visit (which, unfortunately, happened more often than John may have liked; they had to be careful when they had sex outside of one of their bedrooms).  
  
Sherlock was already lying on the bed, completely naked, propped up on one arm with an eyebrow raised and (oh God) a fully erect cock. His free hand was slowly, casually stroking his prick.  
  
With that glorious image as motivation, it didn't take long for John to wordlessly strip down to nothing and lay down beside Sherlock. His own cock was already twitching to life by the time he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. Knowing that his goal was to torture Sherlock as much as possible, John made sure to use every kissing trick he'd learned over the years—just the right amount of teeth nipping at Sherlock's lips, teasing darts and retreats of his tongue that would make Sherlock want more, wandering hands seeking out every one of Sherlock's erogenous zones.  
  
By the time John moved away to kiss his way across Sherlock's jaw, sucking a bruise into the tender skin at the junction of neck and shoulder, Sherlock was panting heavily.  
  
"John," he said, his voice deeper than usual and heavy with more than a little desperation.  
  
John knew Sherlock well enough to figure out that the man may have been overreacting a bit, but he wasn't about to resist.  
  
Well . . . not completely, anyway. John pushed Sherlock onto his back and straddled his thin hips, then scooted back until he could bend down and lick trails across the pale expanse of Sherlock's chest. He sucked another bruise between two visible ribs, drew an erect nipple into his mouth, and bit just hard enough for Sherlock to hiss and arch up into the touch.  
  
When he worked his way lower, to the flat pane of stomach hiding small hints of strong abdominal muscles, John pretended to "accidentally" let the top of his chest fall low enough to brush the tip of Sherlock's lightly-leaking erection.  
  
"Sorry," lied John, pulling back up and catching Sherlock's eye. He put on his best innocent face, even though he knew Sherlock would see right through it.  
  
Sherlock muttered something that sounded a lot like "bastard" and rolled his eyes.  
  
John was fairly sure that he'd distracted Sherlock with that little act, so he took the opportunity to (finally) wrap his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, giving it a long, slow stroke.  
  
Sherlock's head immediately popped up, his eyes slightly wide. "You remember the point of this exercise?"  
  
It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Repeated and prolonged orgasm denial, yes. I'm not that dull. I do understand what that means. Tell me when to back off, and I will. Then tell me when you're ready for the next round, and I'll start up again. Simple enough." He shrugged.  
  
"You don't think we need a safeword?"  
  
John furrowed his brow. "It didn't even occur to me.” They’d never needed one before. “If you say 'stop' or 'pull away' or 'wait,' I will. Not that words will even be necessary; I know your body. I can tell when you're close. But if you think we should have a safeword, then by all means, feel free to pick something."  
  
A pause. Consideration. "No, that's alright. Go on, then."  
  
It didn't take incredibly long. John's experience came in handy; he wasn't called John "Three Continents" Watson for nothing. A steady pace, occasional swipes of his palm over the wet head of Sherlock's cock, John's free hand wandering across Sherlock's skin to electrify as much of his body as possible. John was very hard and incredibly tempted to get Sherlock off so he could take care of his own needs without feeling selfish, but this wasn't about him. This was about Sherlock, who was bored with this week's lack of cases, and who required something to focus on to prevent himself from destroying all of London. As difficult as it was, John was an adult, and he could ignore his own aching hardness. Soon, Sherlock was panting "stop, yes, excellent, John" and John pulled away, feeling rather proud.  
  
"Are you okay?" John wanted to make sure. This may have been Sherlock's idea, but Sherlock was still allowed to change his mind.  
  
"I’m fine," said Sherlock. "Just . . . give me a few minutes."  
  
John sat on the corner of the bed, not touching Sherlock at all. He waited while Sherlock calmed down, aware that connecting to Sherlock's skin might get him tense. In order for this to work, Sherlock needed to come down from the peak of his arousal.  
  
After sitting in silence (apart from the sound of their breathing) for four or five minutes, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "Okay," he said.  
  
John used his mouth this time. He knelt between Sherlock's legs, bent over, and licked a trail from the base of Sherlock's cock to the tip. Wonderfully, John could hear the catch in Sherlock's breath, could see Sherlock's lean muscles tense beneath his pale skin, and could feel the straining cock twitch against his tongue. Gorgeous.  
  
He wrapped a steadying hand around the base and took as much of Sherlock into his mouth as he could. It wasn't much (he hadn't yet gained control over his gag reflex), but he used his hand to make up the difference, pumping in time with the gentle bobbing of his head. When he heard Sherlock groan, he pulled off and sucked softly on Sherlock's balls, licked up his perineum, dragged a teasing finger across his hole.  
  
"Ungh, John," said Sherlock, which John took to mean that he was getting close again.  
  
He pulled away completely, cutting off all contact between them again. "Still good? You're allowed to change your mind, you know. Your . . . Sherlock, your cock is so hard and flushed that it's almost purple. I really don't mind getting you off if--"  
  
"No." Sherlock's eyes were clamped tight with the effort of bringing himself back from the edge a second time, but the shake of his head was certain. "I need this, John."  
  
John nodded, even though Sherlock wouldn't be able to see it. "Okay."  
  
Actually, it wasn't entirely okay. John was happy to help Sherlock with this if that was what he wanted, but John's own cock was pulsing angrily at the knowledge that Sherlock was getting so much attention and it was getting nothing. It was starting to hurt.  
  
Uncomfortable, John shifted on the bed. It wouldn't be very fair for John to tease Sherlock by wanking when Sherlock wouldn't be getting off yet, but maybe he could run to the bathroom to "get some water" and have a quick little toss into the toilet. Just to hold him over. Sherlock was so gorgeous like this that John was pretty sure he could get it up again before he had to come back into the bedroom. Sherlock might not even notice that John had gotten off, and a quick orgasm would help John make it through the evening alive. He could do it. Just a fast little trip to the bathroom, and--  
  
"No, John. Get off if you like, but don't try to hide it from me. I can tell by the way you're shifting around that you're uncomfortable. Go on, but let me watch."  
  
The insufferable bastard still had his eyes closed, and he'd known everything. Bugger it all. John should’ve known better.  
  
"Fine," said John. He took himself in hand (yes, Jesus, perfect, finally), gasping softly at his own touch. He didn't have to stare at Sherlock to turn himself on more. He didn't have to work particularly hard to stroke himself a certain way, or at a certain speed. After roughly a dozen strokes, he just came, spilling over his hand onto the sheets and (woops) Sherlock's leg.  
  
"Sorry," he said, when he noticed what he'd done. Coming on someone was probably considered bad form, wasn't it?  
  
Sherlock didn't seem to think so, though. He just sort of smiled and laughed derisively. "John, two days ago, you came down my throat. I don't really care if you get a little semen on my leg."  
  
John blushed at the memory, feeling his tired prick struggle to come back to life so it could have that again. "Right then," he said. But he still felt sort of bad for making a mess, so he found a tissue and cleaned his mess from Sherlock’s skin. He also tried to get the worst of the mess off the sheets, but they were a lost cause. Oh well. John was going to be the one to do the washing, anyway.  
  
It took a few more minutes before Sherlock was ready again. John knew that this wouldn't take long, so when Sherlock gave the okay to start up again, John didn't torture him with special tricks that would speed things up too much. He just wanked Sherlock, using the pace and pressure he knew Sherlock liked, his free hand resting tenderly on Sherlock's chest. John thought that Sherlock might want to put an end to this and let himself come, but he was soon calling a stop to it without having orgasmed, so John pulled away again.  
  
"Are you sure you want to keep this up?" he asked. Not because he doubted Sherlock's desires or anything, but the poor guy looked like he was really struggling to keep himself from coming, and John thought he deserved an end. A release. An out. There were other ways Sherlock could keep his mind busy. He didn't need to torture himself like this.  
  
Sherlock paused a moment before answering. "Enough for tonight," he said at last.  
  
John reached forward, thinking that meant Sherlock wanted to have an orgasm and fall asleep in a nice post-coital bliss, but Sherlock caught his wrist.  
  
"You misunderstand me, John. I can't last much longer if you continue to touch me, but my mind is still tremendously bored." He sighed heavily. "We'll have to continue this beyond tonight."  
  
John gaped. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Quite. Going without orgasm for one evening is only a minor mental challenge. Mostly physical, really, and loads of common half-wits do it all the time. But going without orgasm for days--weeks even--that would help keep me occupied. Who knows how long it'll be before someone in this dreadful city decides to commit an intelligent murder? They're all a bunch of idiots, John! Unless Molly comes across a field of dead bodies with no easily discernible cause of death, I'm going to need a way to occupy my mind in the long term. This should do the trick."  
  
John didn't entirely understand the appeal, and he hoped Sherlock didn’t mean to continue this forever, but he was hardly going to argue as long as Sherlock continued to let John get off. But the moment Sherlock asked to expand his experiment to the both of them to compare John's mental and physical responses to his own, John was definitely going to refuse to help him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was okay. John agreed to this, and he was still on board. Totally. Definitely.
> 
> Maybe not so much.

It went on for several weeks. The cases continued to be dull, predictable, and inadequately mentally stimulating to satisfy Sherlock. Despite John’s constant badgering (born out of perfectly respectable concern), Sherlock ate little more than 200 calories a day in between cases, and nothing at all while he was working. He went for days on end without sleeping, even when he had no reason to be awake.

John was going crazy. At least once a day, Sherlock would call him into one of their bedrooms, have John bring him repeatedly to the brink of orgasm, then let John wank himself while Sherlock calmed himself down and went to sleep without release. Every day, the routine left Sherlock a little more frustrated.

“How long is this going to go on?” John asked on Day Twenty-Four. “I know you need mental stimulation, and I’m happy to help with this if you really want it, but you seem more frustrated than satisfied. You aren’t eating or sleeping, and you must be gagging for an orgasm.” God, John couldn’t even imagine. He’d been masturbating at least three times a week since he hit puberty, and since he and Sherlock had become flatmates, he’d increased that to daily. Even when his sex life was active, he saw sex with a person as a supplement to his regular masturbation habit, rather than a replacement. He couldn’t imagine going almost a month without release.

Sherlock seemed to think differently, though. “I need this, John. It’s starting to work—starting to be difficult—but it’s not enough to keep my mind occupied yet. You wouldn’t understand because you’ve been sexually active all your life, but I wasn’t. Before you, everyone was boring. I know because I tried them—every type. They were boring, and sex was boring. I defaulted to abstinence, John, which means that my mind and body are used to living without sex. So, no, it’s not enough yet. More time.”

John sighed. If Sherlock had made up his mind, John didn’t have the slightest hope of convincing him otherwise.

“Okay,” he said, hoping that Sherlock was right, and that prolonged orgasm denial could really stimulate Sherlock’s mind enough to keep him sane and happy.

~  
  
It was a Tuesday. Day Thirty-Seven.

Things had been getting better—a locked-door murder, followed by a bomber who targeted young women living on their own. For Sherlock and John, back-to-back cases which both held Sherlock’s interest meant ten straight days of sleepless nights, solving puzzles, and John failing to get Sherlock to eat. Sherlock was so occupied that he didn’t even ask John to touch him.

During the day, they casually exchanged innocent touches, and (upon making progress on one of the cases) the occasional chaste, celebratory kiss. They were both so tired that there was no time for sex.

Over that hectic ten-day period, John only wanked twice.

This kind of thing was Sherlock’s dream, the perfect amount of action to ease every tiny cramp from John’s leg, and just the thing to make it especially difficult for John to get Sherlock into bed.  
Once things calmed down and the last report was sent into the Yard, John was certain that Sherlock would stuff himself with food, then let John shag them both to sleep.

Naturally, it was difficult to keep from smiling. On a physical level, John could make do with frequent wanking and being able to touch Sherlock the way he wanted to. Emotionally, not being able to help Sherlock relax and unwind and come was . . . frustrating. John wasn’t delusional enough to think that watching Sherlock repeatedly deny himself was even half as difficult as the actual denial, but he was tired of this game. He liked seeing Sherlock’s face in the throes of orgasm, all pale skin flushed red at the peaks of his cheeks and in spots down his pretty neck, chest, and the insides of his thighs. If Sherlock wanted a little orgasm denial, then fine. John would help him. But after a month of it, this was getting ridiculous. John was looking forward to the end—the return to normalcy.

As soon as they walked into the flat, John hurried to the kitchen and put together some food for Sherlock—a plate of leftover curry and (in case Sherlock was hungry enough to not care about ingesting healthy food) an apple. Served cold, of course; Sherlock hadn’t eaten in days, and would care far more about eating immediately than he would about temperature.

John watched eagerly as Sherlock shed his coat and came over to the table, not hesitating to shovel the food into his mouth at a pace which might’ve been impressive if John weren’t used to it.

Satisfied that the man was eating, John put the kettle to boil. Sherlock would be thirsty after eating an entire plate of curry at record speeds.

Distracted as he was, John was surprised to hear Sherlock’s voice.

“What’re you so happy about?” Sherlock managed to ask through a mouth full of food.

“Oh, er. Just . . . you know. Good pair of cases. Job well done. Nice to have a bit of rest now, isn’t it.” He said it like a statement, knowing Sherlock would never agree that rest was ‘nice,’ even if the alternative could exhaust him enough to land him in the hospital.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, disbelieving. “No. We’ve had back-to-back cases before, and you’ve never been so giddy. This is something else.”

“Err.” Shit. John couldn’t exactly say that he was carefully eyeing the contents of Sherlock’s plate, eagerly awaiting the moment in which he could drag Sherlock to the nearest surface and shag the daylights out of him.

“Ah. Increased breathing rate, flushed cheeks, dilated pupils. You’re aroused. Why? You know I always pass out after a case. You weren’t expecting to . . . oh. You were.” The way his voice deflated made it sound almost like an apology. Almost.

John tried to back out. “No, that’s not. . . . I mean, I wasn’t necessarily thinking that we’d—”

“Don’t lie to me, John. You were.”

Silence. What was he supposed to say? He was caught. Of course he was. Even a sleep-deprived Sherlock Holmes had better deductive skills than the rest of London combined. John had no hope of hiding anything, really. He should’ve known better.

Sherlock must’ve seen John deflate, because he stood up and walked over to the stove, where John was standing next to the soon-to-be-boiling kettle. “John,” he whispered, soft and deep and not helping John’s effort to reduce his arousal. He reached out to cup John’s cheek in his palm, but John gently caught his wrist.

“Don’t. It’s okay. Finish eating, go to sleep, and I’ll see you in . . . what, twenty hours? Twenty-two?” John’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile at that, without him even having to force it.

“John.”

“No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Not really.

“John—”

The kettle interrupted, thankfully. Grateful for the excuse, John poured Sherlock a cup of tea, ushered him back into his chair, kissed his forehead, and said goodnight. He left the kitchen before he could embarrass himself further.

In the quiet of his own room, John tried to ease his frustration with a much-needed night-time masturbation session. But instead of thinking about how beautiful Sherlock was, and how lucky John was to have him, and how great the guy could be when he wasn’t actively being a prat, all John could think of was the fact that he wanted to be with Sherlock—not jerking off in front of Sherlock, or touching Sherlock but having to pull away at a moment’s notice, but being able to have him again.

As it turned out, that wasn’t the best masturbatory material. John’s erection lilted, and he was forced to go to bed without satisfaction.

He knew it wasn’t nearly the same as what Sherlock was intentionally doing to himself, but this rare inability to get off felt a lot like orgasm denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'M SORRY! I feel so bad for John. I tried to wrap this up, but plot happened.
> 
> There is an end in sight, though. It's coming soon. A couple more days, darlings. Hang in there.
> 
> And thank you for all the lovely comments so far. I hope I don't disappoint you. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things!
> 
> 1) I am absolutely awful for taking so long with this, and I'm sorry. Six months is ridiculous. I hope the length of this final chapter makes up for the wait.
> 
> 2) You may notice that I have a new PSEUDONYM! I'd previously been juggling a few different usernames. I've now changed to one username across all fandom platforms: I am mydarlingbenedict here, as well as on Tumblr.
> 
> 3) Starting with this update, my work will be Beta'd! I owe my tremendous thanks to [Morgana-le-Fai](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/3069801/) and [FlirtyAmy](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/3099154/), whose keen eyes ironed out typos and consistency errors in this final chapter AND the previous two chapters!
> 
> 4) This fic got away from me a bit. Some parts may be gross, to some, and this is definitely not meant as a guide to safe sex practices. Proceed with caution.

Day Forty-Nine. Another case done--triple homicide. Four days of chasing down dead-end leads, followed by the anti-climactic arrest of a man who was systematically killing his childhood bullies. Hard as it had been to find him, the guy gave himself up as soon as NSY showed up at his flat. Lestrade hadn’t even needed to pull out his search warrant.

On the cab ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock complained gruffly about how, if the man wanted to be caught, he shouldn’t have gone through the trouble of calling in an ex-assassin to help him commit the murders and clean up the crime scenes.

John held up his side of the conversation and tried to keep his hands from wandering across the seat and into Sherlock’s pants. Because the case was over, and John knew what that meant: Sherlock would (grudgingly) eat, sleep, and most importantly (in John’s eyes) have sex.

And John was more than ready to put an end to Sherlock’s infernal experiment.

Not in public, of course; they still had to get home. John used up the last vestiges of his patience on the cab ride home. It was almost over. John could see the end, the reward. Just a few more minutes.

When they got to Baker Street, he threw a fistful of cash at the driver. (Too much, going by the look on the bloke’s face, but John couldn’t be bothered. There were more important matters at hand.)

He went inside as quickly as he could without full-on running, stripped off his coat, hastily hung it up, waited the three seconds it took for Sherlock to catch up, and lunged forward. He closed and locked the door to the flat (wouldn’t do to have visitors now), and gracelessly shoved Sherlock against it, forcing their mouths together.

To Sherlock’s credit, he didn’t struggle. A small noise of surprise escaped his throat, then he was wrapping his arms around John’s middle, pulling him close.

This sort of thing usually went on for a while before the actual sex. John liked foreplay. He liked to be desperate when he finally felt Sherlock’s hands on his bare skin, and he liked when Sherlock was reduced to pleas for help before John even touched his cock.

This time, John was already desperate. The month-and-a-half of build-up had been too much. His patience had run out. He’d been half-hard on the way home, and touching Sherlock was enough to quickly finish the job.

He thrust his hips forward, grinding his still-clothed cock into Sherlock’s thigh, making Sherlock feel his want, his frustration, his angry desire. With a tug of Sherlock’s hair and a rough bite to that sinfully plush lower lip (almost hard enough to draw blood), John pulled his face back, letting their mouths fall apart.

“You’re an arrogant, manipulative bastard,” John said. “I thought it was going to be a one-time thing. One night, maybe a few days. A week, tops. Instead, it’s been a fucking month. A month, Sherlock, in which I haven’t been able to shag my boyfriend. Do you know what happens to most couples who go that long without sex? They break up. They go to fucking therapy, and when that doesn’t work, they break up.”

Sherlock started to protest—probably to say that he didn’t want to break up, or that they’d been having sex this whole time—but John stopped him by pulling his hair harder. Hard enough to make Sherlock’s eyes water.

“No. You’ve had a fucking say this whole time. You’ve been in control. I’ve been perfect. I touched you whenever you wanted, at whatever time of day, regardless of what I was doing when you wanted me, and I always stopped when you asked me to. Always. You don’t get a say anymore.” John hadn’t planned to say this much, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. He was too angry and too horny and too determined to make Sherlock understand.

“I let it go on for so, so long. Through multiple cases, Sherlock, and shitty days at the clinic. I waited. I let you try your little experiment. You’ve had more than enough time to gather your fucking data.”

He lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s ear and snarled into it.

“I’m in control now.”

Sherlock shuddered. “John,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

John loosened his grip on Sherlock’s hair, just enough to grant Sherlock a reprieve. Not enough to stop it from hurting.

“John, I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, deep, and almost remorseful. It was entirely possible that he was being manipulative. Sherlock Holmes was a skilled actor, self-trained to cry on command or appear weak to manipulate witnesses and suspects. He could be using that skill now—despite John’s insistence, very early in their companionship, that Sherlock be unerringly honest in everything involving John.

It didn’t matter, though, either way. John’s response was the same, whether Sherlock was lying or not.

“You’re going to be,” John growled. He didn’t have the patience for Sherlock’s half-hearted apologies. The words didn’t matter. Actions mattered—specifically, the action of John finally getting to have sex with his boyfriend-partner-flatmate-friend-companion again.

He stepped back, yanked Sherlock’s shoulders forward, and pressed a guiding hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Tripping over his own feet a bit in his haste, John roughly pushed Sherlock toward the bedroom. The wall was a good place for a quick shag under normal circumstances, but John had no intention of ending this anytime soon and this escapade was anything but normal. John’s frustration would take time to ease its way out, and John planned to shag Sherlock for the entire time.

Upon entering the bedroom, John slammed the door behind them, spun Sherlock around, and set to work removing that gorgeous Belstaff. He knew how much it had cost, so he treated it with the kind of care that said ‘I would totally fuck you in this masterpiece of a coat, but the semen stains would probably ruin it, so consider yourself lucky that I find it sexy as Hell.’

Sherlock’s face was scrunched up, like he didn’t understand why John was in such a hurry, but he didn’t protest. He rolled his eyes and let John manoeuvre his arms out of the sleeves, watched to make sure that John threw the coat on the dresser instead of the floor, and generally stayed still so John could manhandle him as he pleased.

Sherlock was not, at this point, erect.

John didn’t mind. He was hard enough for the two of them, and Sherlock had gone so long without orgasm that getting hard would mean a rather quick finish. John wasn’t ready for either of them to come yet.

He had much bigger plans for the evening than getting each other off so soon—before they were even naked. He’d waited weeks to have Sherlock properly at his mercy, and he wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to show Sherlock how ridiculous this experiment had been, and to make him feel damn guilty about all they’d missed out on.

He didn’t really want to hurt Sherlock, or make him do anything that Sherlock didn’t want to do. He did still want Sherlock’s consent, in the end.

But John was sick of having no say in their sex lives. He wanted to take back the control that Sherlock had stolen from him. He wanted to reassert the fact that sex was a two-way activity; he was not Sherlock’s sex toy. They were partners.

John’s prolonged frustration just made him prone to acting harsher than necessary.

With Sherlock’s precious coat out of the way, John yanked at the rest of Sherlock’s clothes. He turned Sherlock around and pulled his blazer off with a single tug, spun him back around and yanked open his shirt, sending buttons skittering across the floor.

Sherlock huffed and opened his mouth to protest at the mistreatment of his clothes, but they were just buttons, so John shot him a look and Sherlock sighed and shut up.

Actually, considering what a pain in the arse Sherlock had been about starting and maintaining this idiotic experiment, he didn’t seem to be complaining about John putting a forceful end to it. Maybe his own patience had been wearing as thin as John’s had. Maybe he was going to protest later, when John got to the difficult part of making Sherlock come.

Possibly, he really was willing to listen to John, for the sake of their relationship and John’s mental happiness. But John was not an idiot; he knew that that was the least likely possibility. Sherlock might care about John, but he was not outwardly selfless. Everything he did benefited himself, even if other people couldn’t see it. Even the fact that he solved crime—something that saved lives on a daily basis—was done more for Sherlock’s peace of mind than the fact that it was philanthropic.

Sherlock had a reason for being so docile. A reason other than getting off (he had, after all, voluntarily gone over a month without orgasm). John didn’t know the reason yet, but he had other pressing concerns, like unbuttoning the fly of Sherlock’s trousers. He could unravel Sherlock’s motivations after, when he could bloody think again.

At last he yanked down Sherlock’s trousers and pants in one motion, dragging the socks off as Sherlock stepped out of his clothes.

The arrogant wanker was naked, gorgeous, and showing the first stirrings of an erection.

(Odd. Did he like it when John pushed him around and didn’t let him speak? If so, John knew about a thousand ways to use that to his advantage. Perhaps he could get Sherlock to stop fighting so much when it came to eating on a normal, human schedule.)

“Bed,” John ordered, reaching for the bedside drawer and locating a tube of lubricant. He passed it to Sherlock, who was standing in the middle of the room with his eyebrows knitted together, as if John were speaking a foreign language.

“Insufferable prat. Bed. I trust you know what to do with the lubricant when you get there?” said John, handing over the tube. He regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He was past being bossy; this was just mean. Too mean, and it was done unnecessarily, because Sherlock was being perfectly . . . obedient. John knew, in the back of his mind, that he was being awful and cruel and disrespectful, and that even though they were involved a consensual about-to-be-sex thing, John was pushing it. No amount of anger or sexual frustration gave him the right to talk to Sherlock like that. If Sherlock wanted to stop and ask questions and frown, John shouldn’t mock him for it.

But Sherlock, who was more than capable of being mean right back, just narrowed his eyes and did as he was told.

Well, sort of. He took the lube and went to the bed, sprawling across it on his back like a model for a still life painting, but he didn’t start preparing himself. He held the lube in one hand and watched John, silent, face wrinkled into its standard deduction gaze.

Usually, John melted under that look. He smiled and preened and giggled like a schoolgirl, asking what Sherlock could tell about him, bursting with pride and praise at everything Sherlock got right, acting embarrassed when Sherlock deduced something personal.

Not today. John clenched his jaw, stripped off his clothes with as much fierceness as he’d done Sherlock’s.

“You know,” said Sherlock with exaggerated casualness. His head was tilted to one side, as if he’d only just made an observation. “You’ve been getting off roughly eighteen times a week since this started. Your old average was closer to ten. I, on the other hand, don’t masturbate; I’ve gone from five proper shags a week to . . . what, bi-weekly sessions with you? And I haven’t gotten off at all.”

John sneered at him and pulled the jumper over his own head, masking the look’s effectiveness. “What are you on about?” He meant it to sound annoyed, but Sherlock was right. John may have had to go without actual sex, but for a man his age, he’d been coming with frankly alarming frequency. In that light, John’s behaviour was unreasonable; he should be grateful, not angry. So his voice came out sort of soft, and surprised.

To his credit, Sherlock didn’t seize the opportunity to be cruel. He didn’t tell John what an idiot he was. He merely said, in a voice so casual he might’ve been talking about the wallpaper, “It seems to me that I should be the desperate one.”

John, finally naked, went to the bed. Instinct guided him right over Sherlock, knees astride Sherlock’s hips, torso supported with fully extended arms on either side of Sherlock’s head.

“You’re shit at following directions,” said John. But now that they were both naked, and now that sex was finally within reach, and now that Sherlock appeared to be giving in, John’s roughness started to melt. He smiled and kissed Sherlock’s lips, his tongue probing fiercely while his lips glided softly. A study in duality.

Sherlock gave up the lube in favour of sliding his hands into John’s hair, keeping him close. His long legs squirmed as if they wished to wrap themselves around John’s torso, but in their current position, they could only make contact by bending fully in half, so that Sherlock’s thighs would meet John’s arse. It wasn’t enough, and Sherlock growled, sliding his blunt nails across John’s scalp.

John laughed into his mouth and pulled away. “You’re awfully eager for a man who’s refused orgasm for seven weeks. I’m shocked.”

“I thought you were happy,” said Sherlock, eyes hardening, jaw setting stubbornly. He looked for all the world like a man who was telling the truth. Except that he couldn’t be. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, was more than capable of figuring out whether his boyfriend was happy. John’s emotional state hadn’t been a mystery this whole time. Sherlock noticed that John was wanking far more than usual, he noticed that John was moody, and he was smart enough to connect those things to the stupid orgasm denial experiment.  
So of course John didn’t believe him. But now was not the time to argue. John was hard, and it was about time that Sherlock caught up.

Instead of answering with words, John reached for the lube, popped open the cap, and squirted some onto his fingers. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, searching for consent, for an argument, for anything.

Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment, as though he had to think about it. And then he nodded.

There was no need for more explicit consent than that. John scooted down to the bottom of the bed and moved Sherlock’s legs open, intentionally neglecting to warm the lube by rubbing it between his fingers first before pressing against Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock gasped softly and winced at the cold—a reflex. His eyes told a different story. He’d sat up as far as he could without ruining the angle John was working with, and his pupils were blown wide—accepting, fond.

At his end, John kissed the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He was angry, yes, but he didn’t actually want to hurt Sherlock. He did care. He did love the bastard. He did want to make Sherlock happy. As he pressed a finger inside, he watched Sherlock’s face. It had been a while since they’d done this. Sherlock enjoyed it so much that it had been entirely off the table during the past few weeks; he trusted John to stop on command, even during a shag, but Sherlock didn’t want to ruin his own experiment by being unable to stop himself from coming. Whatever level of looseness his anus had once gotten to by being fucked on a regular basis was now gone. He was tight, and needed as much preparation as he had the first time he’d let John fuck him. This was like starting from the very beginning.

John felt the resistance, and he acted accordingly. He couldn’t rush the preparation, as he sometimes used to. A second finger pressed inside, and the two pulled apart from each other, testing the limits of Sherlock’s muscle, gently easing it wider, probing for a bit while it adjusted and stretching again.

When he feared that Sherlock might be getting bored, he grinned wickedly and twisted his fingers upward. Being a doctor had its benefits; he found Sherlock’s prostate almost immediately.

His skill was well rewarded. Sherlock, for all his roughness in daily conversations, was beautifully sensitive in the bedroom. His breath hitched at John’s touch, his cock hurried further toward becoming erect (almost halfway, now), and John could feel some tension begin to ease its way from those beautifully lean muscles.

“Alright?” John asked, even though he knew the answer. He was mostly asking out of courtesy; he wasn’t really mad anymore. This was what he wanted, and he finally had it. Sherlock hadn’t even resisted. John had expected to have to work harder to get to this point—perhaps some thorough snogging before Sherlock could be convinced to end his experiment. Yet, they’d hardly spend any time kissing, and things were going smoothly. Getting to this point had been astonishingly easy.

Sherlock was still more than coherent enough to sneer. “If I weren’t alright, John, you’d know. You can be sure of that.”

John chuckled and nipped at the crease between Sherlock’s thigh and perineum, enjoying the way Sherlock reflexively twitched away but then spread his legs further.

Yes, if Sherlock were actually unhappy, he’d say so, and John would do the same if things were reversed. They had no need for safe words or secret signals; they both wanted this, and if something wasn’t going well, they were both capable of saying so, or (in an extreme case—one that hadn’t happened yet, and probably never would) physically stopping the other from doing whatever not-good thing was causing the problem.

John added a third finger, continuing to pull the ring of Sherlock’s muscle apart, easing it wider and stopping occasionally to tease at Sherlock’s prostate. He watched Sherlock’s face gradually slackening, and thought about whether he wanted to tease Sherlock with a fourth finger or (since Sherlock was finally hard and John was aching) just get on with things.

“Go on,” said Sherlock, knowing—as usual—exactly what John was thinking.

And who was John to protest? He smiled, pulled his fingers out, and wiped them on the sheets.

Part of him was afraid that Sherlock might be ‘taking one for the team,’ as it were, but Sherlock’s face made it clear that that wasn’t the case; Sherlock did want this. He looked relaxed, happy, and even eager. His countenance no longer bore any traces of mere toleration. He was not rolling his eyes or sighing exasperatedly. He was fucking smiling.

John crawled over him and kissed his pretty mouth languidly, pulling away only when Sherlock started to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders.

“You’re gorgeous,” said John. He was tempted to say something to make a point, like ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ but he didn’t want to ruin this with his own spite. Instead, he reached for the lube, slicked himself up, checked Sherlock’s face for any sign that he needed to wait, saw Sherlock nod, and (finally) slowly eased himself inside.

God, and it was . . . it had been so long. This was infinitely better than his left hand. It was hotter, tighter, wetter, and he had to close his eyes for a second, adjusting to the feeling. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring at him, pupils wide.

John kissed his forehead, then dragged his hips backward, pulling almost all the way out. He snapped back in a little faster than Sherlock seemed to be anticipating; Sherlock’s eyebrows jumped for a moment.

As if reassuring John that he wasn’t protesting, he wrapped all four limbs around John, shins tucked beneath John’s arse and arms tight around his back.

John already knew that he wasn’t going to last long. This was too perfect. He tried to move slowly, establishing a rhythm that was just shy of what it usually took to get himself off, but his eagerness soon won out. He pumped in and out with increasing vigour, rocking the bed.

The sound of their flesh slapping together, combined with the squelch of John’s cock moving inside a tight space with slightly too much lube, was obscene in a way that turned John on more.

He glanced down, into the space between them, and saw that Sherlock cock was leaking a puddle of pre-come onto his own belly. Having not orgasmed in far too long, there was more of it than usual; a steady stream instead of the normal trickle. Were John not otherwise occupied, it would’ve been impossible to resist licking it away.

“John,” Sherlock whinged. “I’m . . . close.” He said it with hesitation and amazement. Rightfully so, too; as much as he was turned on by prostate stimulation, he’d never quite been able to get off without having his penis touched. He could get infinitely close, but always needed three or four quick jerks to his cock before he could actually orgasm.

Now, he looked like he was seriously considering the possibility that that could change.

The very thought of making Sherlock come from fucking alone was what did it. John pushed in hard, bit Sherlock’s shoulder, and came with a few erratic thrusts and a low groan, spilling inside him.

He stilled for a few moments while the worst of the tremors passed, then slid out and reached for a tissue. There was a mess of lube and semen spilling from between Sherlock’s legs, and John mopped up the worst of it.

When he looked up, Sherlock was wriggling around uncomfortably, shifting the pool of pre-come on his stomach. There was so much of it that it looked almost like he’d come, except that he was still hard.

“John,” said Sherlock in the kind of tone which most people reserved for begging.

“Don’t worry,” John assured him. “I haven’t forgotten.”

But instead of doing the easy thing and reaching for Sherlock’s cock, he eased three fingers back into Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock grumbled. “But I’m already close,” he protested.

John grinned wickedly. “I know. I’ve wanted to try this for a while now. You’re not the only one who can experiment.” Because yes, it was true that Sherlock had never come from prostate stimulation alone, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. He was more on-edge now than he’d ever been, having gone so long without coming. He was aroused, and close to orgasm, and he just needed John to push him over the edge—the precipice near which he’d been dangling for weeks.

Sherlock growled, and gripped the sheets to keep from touching himself. “I can’t,” he insisted after about thirty seconds.

To John, that just sounded like a challenge. “You can. I bet your balls feel so full, don’t they? You’ve been leaking, and that takes some pressure off, but it’s not enough. There’s so much semen in there, and you want it out.”

Sherlock didn’t understand the point of stating the obvious. “I’m not an idiot, John. I know I want to come.”

John ignored him, continuing where he left off. “You’ve gone so long without coming. And it’s different than celibacy, isn’t it? I’ve touched you.” For emphasis, he ran his free right hand along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, tracing, teasing. He stared right into Sherlock’s wide, confused eyes. “You were hard for hours, some nights, and I never let you come. Not even once.” A technicality; Sherlock was the one who never let himself come. But John wasn’t trying to be perfect about semantics. He was trying to help.

It seemed to be working, mostly, until Sherlock groaned in frustration and reached for his cock. John was ready, and pulled his hands away from Sherlock completely—just as he’d done so many times before. Out of instinct or apology, Sherlock halted his hand and moved it back to the sheet, balling the fabric in his fists.

John sat back and shook his head. “You know what I said about trying to touch yourself.” Keeping an eye on Sherlock, he leaned over and opened a drawer in the bedside table. In the same place they kept the lube, he’d stashed away something else in preparation for this: a pair of silk ties. They’d go well with Sherlock’s suits, if he ever wore ties, but these were for a different purpose.

“Hands up,” John instructed, pointedly eyeing the headboard.

Sherlock seemed incapable of moving his own hands from where they were tangled in the sheets, unless he was being allowed to touch himself. Sympathetically, John wrested Sherlock’s right hand from the bed, brought it up to the headboard, and secured it there with one of the silk ties. He used a knot that Sherlock wouldn’t be unable to take apart himself, but which John would be able to pull open with one tug, if Sherlock decided that this was too much.

“Feel alright?” John asked, because this was not a punishment, or something meant to hurt Sherlock; it was just a way to keep his hands from interfering.

Sherlock tugged his arm. There was a little bit of give, so his wrist wouldn’t be chafed, but not enough give to slip free. He wiggled a bit, clearly more concerned about coming than the state of his wrists. John quickly tied up Sherlock’s other hand to match the first, and leaned in to reward Sherlock with a kiss.

“You’re lovely,” said John as Sherlock tried to not-so-subtly hump his leg. Without the urgency of making himself come, John had all the time in the world to tease Sherlock’s neck with soft, sucking kisses and the light slide of his callused hands. So that’s exactly what he did.

Sherlock growled and tried to knee or kick John, but their position made that difficult. He succeeded only in wrapping himself around John’s body, like he’d done before.

“Are you going to finish this or not?” Sherlock spat, his hips thrusting into the air in an attempt to make contact with John’s body. (John pulled back whenever Sherlock’s cock got too close, so the attempts were fruitless.)

“Oh, you needn’t worry,” said John. “You’ll be coming very soon.” As if proving that he wasn’t a liar, he reached back down between Sherlock’s legs—carefully avoiding that beautiful, dripping cock—and pressed three fingers back into Sherlock’s hole. He didn’t really need to see what he was doing, so he kept his torso hovering over Sherlock’s, so his right hand could roam around Sherlock’s chest while John pressed kisses to whatever pieces of skin happened to look appealing.

“John, if you don’t make me come, I’ll—ah!”

Prostate stimulation, especially when he was this aroused, made Sherlock speechless. John liked using that to his advantage.

“You were saying? Something about threatening me?” Another swipe across the swollen prostate, a few thrusts of his fingers, some unnecessary (but fun) stretching of Sherlock’s hole. And repeat.

“I was—ung!—saying that you’re g-going to payyy.”

“Is that right?” John was remarkably calm for a man who was using his talented fingers to make Sherlock Holmes into a babbling fool.

“Yesss.”

John laughed and licked Sherlock’s lips, which were drying out from breathing heavily.

“I’ll let you,” he said. “You can get revenge however you like outside of the bedroom—I know you’ll do it anyway—but in order for that to happen, you have to come. You’re not moving from this spot until you do.”

“If you want me to come so badly, make me,” said Sherlock, pressing his hips upward. Touch me, he was saying with all of the resources his voice and body had to offer. Fucking touch me.

“No. You don’t need me to touch you. You can come like this. You’re so sensitive already, so responsive. And it’s been so long that you’re even more sensitive than usual. Come, Sherlock. Go on.” John eased off the teasing, focusing his attention almost entirely on Sherlock’s prostate. It was so swollen and hard that John had to be gentle to avoid causing pain, but he was relentless in his soft stimulation of it. He had a finger on either side of it, gently pressing, slowly circling. “Do it, Sherlock. Come for me.”

“John. I can’t. It’s . . . ah, so good, but I can’t. John.”

“Shhh, it’s okay. Just let go. You can do it. Come.”

“John, please.”

“Almost there. I feel your balls drawing up tight. Do you feel that?” It was true; John’s arm was reaching between them, and with his fingers up Sherlock’s arse, the base of his palm was gently resting on Sherlock’s balls. John could feel them tightening. “You’re so, so close. Let it go. You want to, don’t you? You want it so badly. Go on, then. Come for me.”

Sherlock was tugging at his restraints, but he couldn’t get free. He couldn’t touch John as he wanted to. He couldn’t leave pink trails across John’s skin—the kind that were mostly harmless and faded in a few hours, but when he pressed his nails in particularly hard, John’s flesh would burn and swell slightly. Unable to make those marks as he usually did, Sherlock found that missed being able to leave a trace of himself on John’s skin.

His hips were pressing upward in search of friction, and he was growling in frustration, but he was dancing at the precipice without being able to tumble over it. Perhaps, after so long of forcing his body to stay away from this One Thing, it had gotten used to being denied. Training it that it was okay to come was taking extra effort.

John did not give up. Even though he was probably awful at whatever variant of dirty talk he was attempting. Instead, he tried a slightly different sort of poorly-executed dirty talk. “Look at your cock, dripping all that precome. It’s almost as if you’ve come already. Imagine how much there will be when you finally spill your load. Buckets worth, I bet. Can you feel it all inside you, ready to come bursting out? I want it, Sherlock. Spurt your semen all over my stomach. Mine’s already inside you, swishing around. Make it fair. Let me have yours.”

And even though it was disgusting, even though years of watching porn had made John’s sex talk sound revolting and crude, it seemed to be working. Sherlock’s frustrated grunts were transforming into high whines. The only words he could produce were jumbled encouragements and iterations of John’s name, but that was more than alright; John didn’t need actual sentences--not when Sherlock was making so many other lovely, filthy noises.

“Good, Sherlock. Yes, louder. Make the neighbours hear. I want everyone to be jealous that I get to have you like this, naked and dripping and needy for me. But they don’t get to have you. Only me, Sherlock. I’m the only one who gets to fuck you. Show me how much you like it when I fuck you. Show me how good I make you feel. Come for me.”

Sherlock was tugging at his restraints, his muscles tightening, preparing, getting his whole body ready to come, but he couldn’t yet, not quite. He just needed a little more.

Taking pity on him, John ‘accidentally’ leaned forward and let his wrist and forearm brush the length of Sherlock’s cock, touching it briefly but completely from root to tip.

That did it. With a cry like a man being shot, Sherlock came, arching high off the bed, legs wrapped tightly around John’s body to pull him close, arms straining against their bonds to do the same, cock twitching and convulsing as it spurted streams of semen between their bodies. The prostate stimulation increased both the volume of semen and the distance it travelled; shots of it hit Sherlock’s chin, John’s cheek, the pillows, their stomachs, the sheets.

John gradually eased up the pressure on Sherlock’s prostate as the tremors slowed, easing out carefully so as not to hurt Sherlock as he pulled out. He wiped his hand on the sheets and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“It’s alright. You were fantastic. Really just . . . exquisite, Sherlock.” He reached for another tissue and wiped the larger spots of semen from their skin, but God, it was everywhere. John would have to wash the sheets at least three times to get it all out, and they’d both need very thorough showers.

“Done?” Sherlock asked, breath returning to normal. His brain was still trying to catch up.

John kissed him. “Not quite,” he said, because he was hard again. Of course he was. He’d come, what, ten minutes ago? Twenty? He couldn’t really keep track, but his frequent masturbation had shortened his refractory period to what was probably standard for a horny 17-year-old, and Sherlock’s desperation had been fucking attractive and amazing.

And now Sherlock was spent, tied up, covered in semen, and completely at John’s mercy.  
Yeah, he was totally going to tap that again.

Except that he couldn’t fuck Sherlock in the same way. The poor guy was going to be sore in the morning as it was, and any further touches to his prostate would hurt. He’d have to use Sherlock in another way.

He did love Sherlock’s hands, with those long fingers, so talented at playing the violin, and just as good at playing John. His hands were callused in a different way than John’s—calluses from the violin strings and various chemical burns, where John’s hands were rough from handling guns and washing his hands all the time at the A&E.

But John had spent the past few weeks getting touched only by hands. And while Sherlock’s hands were shaped differently and skilled in different ways, John wanted something other than a hand.

Which left one option.

“I want to fuck your mouth.”

Sherlock had been letting the tension roll off of his body, his arms sagging from where his wrists were bound to the headboard, his body cooling as the sweat and semen dried on his skin. He was relaxed, and not at all expecting . . . that.

“You haven’t even untied me,” Sherlock protested.

John grinned. If that was Sherlock’s only complaint—not that he was tired or achy or bored of the sex; just that he wanted his wrists untied—then John had already won.

He thought about arguing a bit to make Sherlock earn the use of his hands, but he’d been so good that John couldn’t bring himself to fight it. He reached over and obediently untied Sherlock’s wrists, lightly massaging his arms to get the blood flowing properly again.

“Alright?” he asked again. He had to be sure.

“Yes,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly. He didn’t elaborate, but he wasn’t speaking snippily. He sounded content.

John kissed his lips, and Sherlock took advantage of his newly-freed arms by tugging lightly at John’s hair. With less need to rush, John felt at ease. His hands roamed Sherlock’s skin, just because they could. He didn’t necessarily mind if Sherlock didn’t get hard again; making Sherlock come with only a single touch to his cock had been rewarding enough, and he’d made Sherlock suffer a little bit during the build-up. There was tension between his legs that he fully intended to take care of, but it wasn’t as urgent as it had been before. He could take his time to enjoy Sherlock’s body.

He kissed along Sherlock’s nose, forehead, and cheekbones. He nipped gently at Sherlock’s ear. He licked the sensitive spots along Sherlock’s neck, and lower--mouthed his collarbone, chest, nipples. Every inch of Sherlock was beautiful, and John wanted him to remember that; John might be rough with him, but he cared so very much.

John’s hands were paying special attention to the light spattering of hair across Sherlock’s chest, feeling the evenness of his tired breath, when Sherlock spoke.

“I believe you’ve gotten the order wrong.”

“Hmm?” John didn’t know what he was talking about. He slid back up and licked Sherlock’s lips, as if to remind Sherlock how much he loved that velvety baritone.

“Traditionally, John, the foreplay comes before the sex. Or hadn’t your old girlfriends mentioned that?”

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock softly, hands twisting into his hair. “Since when have we done anything the ‘traditional’ way?”

“I thought you liked traditional sex. You’re very vanilla, John. Or, you were. This evening has been incredibly enlightening. Have you always had fantasies about bondage, or is that a recent development?” The bastard was smiling smugly, like he’d just revealed to the entire United Kingdom that Mycroft had gained a stone in three days.

“Hey, no, that wasn’t—that was just to keep you from touching yourself. It doesn’t count as bondage.”

“Tying up my arms is the very definition of bondage.”

“But I wasn’t trying to—it wasn’t a domination thing, it was—”

Sherlock’s stomach growled, interrupting him.

John leaned back and looked at Sherlock’s belly, as if he could see how empty it was by staring at it. “Oh. Right, of course. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in nearly four days.” His erection was starting to get more than a little annoying, but especially considering the fact that he’d already come once, his needs were considerably less important than Sherlock’s growing hunger. The case was over, and Sherlock’s body was going into Post-Case Recovery Mode. He needed food and sleep as soon as possible, to make up for days of depriving himself of those things. It was actually kind of amazing that he’d made it this long without making John leave him alone.

To John’s surprise, though, Sherlock didn’t take the opportunity to leap up and go shove a few thousand calories into his face. Instead, he frowned.

“You’re hard again,” he said, having (apparently) only noticed that fact when John sat up.

“I know.” Obviously. “It’s . . . fine. I’ll be fine. Go eat.” It wasn’t as if John wasn’t used to this. After cases, he usually let Sherlock eat and sleep at least 17-20 hours before he even tried to get sex. Shagging Sherlock before he’d had a chance to recover was pushing John’s luck, and it would’ve been a miracle for John to come twice before Sherlock’s body made some sort of protest. Sherlock had trained himself to put his own needs on hold when his brain was active, but his mind was cooling off now, and he couldn’t starve himself forever. He needed to be taken care of. John understood that, and he showed it by rolling off of Sherlock. “Go on.” John wouldn’t be coming to the kitchen right away. He needed to take care of something first. Something that was beginning to ache.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, considering, then climbed off the bed. “Wait here.”

“What?” No. John was going to rub one out, as he’s grown so accustomed to doing but that would only take a few minutes. Sherlock would take at least fifteen minutes to shove enough food into his stomach for it to calm down, and that would be more than enough time for John to finish himself off and get to the kitchen. Why would he wait in the bedroom when Sherlock was elsewhere? He wasn’t tired. He didn’t mind—

“Wait here. And don’t touch yourself.” And before John could argue, Sherlock was gone from the room, and John was left to follow directions.

He thought about stroking himself anyway, but he didn’t know for sure whether Sherlock planned to get him off, and he didn’t want to keep himself hard if Sherlock was just going to come back and fall asleep without helping John finish. How long would Sherlock be gone? If it was too long, not touching himself might make John go soft.

Could he touch himself without Sherlock knowing? He couldn’t get himself close enough to leak pre-come, because that would be obvious, but a few strokes might be alright. That would ease the pressure, surely. Make the itch go away. Just a quick rub.

John’s hand was halfway to his cock when Sherlock came in, John’s cold takeaway leftovers from the previous night in one hand, and a fork in the other.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s bad at following directions. I told you not to touch yourself.” That might’ve sounded threatening, except that Sherlock was talking with his mouth full.

“What do you want? Are we just going to stare at my hard cock while you eat?” John let out a huff of laughter. He so wasn’t up for having a chat with Sherlock right now. Neither of them should be talking, really. Sherlock should eat, and John wanted to . . . well. He was only human.

“Not at all. I’m eating, yeah? Let’s have dinner and a show.”

John gaped. “You’re not serious.”

Sherlock jutted his chin forward, indicating that John should get on with it. “As soon as I’ve eaten, I’m going to bed. You could wait until then to jack off, but that would hardly be as fun.”

The man had a point. John just wasn’t used to . . . performing. He’d been naked in front of loads of people in the army, and he’d had more than his fair share of sexual partners, but usually getting off was a mutual thing. He’d never been one for strip teases or voyeurism or anything like that.

And yet, his cock was twitching happily at the idea.

“You’re ridiculous,” said John, taking himself in hand.

And it was good, for a few strokes. Sherlock was noisily sucking down his dinner, watching John with that ever-sexy Deduction Face, watching the way John pulled at himself and played with his own foreskin. Any awkwardness was quickly blown away by Sherlock’s interest; Sherlock looked at John as if he were a fascinating puzzle, or a corpse without obvious clues as to its cause of death. John was encouraged. It felt like he was doing something good, and Sherlock’s constant, all-knowing gaze was his reward.

But the touch of his own hand was too familiar. It recalled all the evenings of the very same thing: getting himself off in Sherlock’s bed, while Sherlock watched, but without any touching.

The experiment was over, but John didn’t know how to make Sherlock a part of this. His mouth and hands were occupied with the important task of getting himself fed, and even though he was naked, his arse had been used too much already. John couldn’t fuck him again.

John stopped, frustrated. “I can’t. Sorry, but it’s not . . . enough. It’s not the same as being with you. Touching you. It’s too much like the other times.” He knew he didn’t need to be more specific. Sherlock would know which times he meant.

Sherlock chewed, considered, and nodded. Then he shifted himself backward, so he was propped up slightly on the pillows at the head of the bed—sitting up enough that he could continue eating, but two-thirds of his body was horizontal. “Use my leg,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Your . . . what?”

“My leg, John. Do try to keep up.”

John had probably been living with Sherlock for too long, because he was insane enough that he actually considered it. “How?” he finally asked, blushing a deep pink. This was so ridiculous. Oh, my God. He should be putting a stop to this. He should be—

“Think of it as frottage. My penis might not be hard, but the location shouldn’t matter. It’s all the same skin. My leg should suffice.”

“You want me to . . . hump your leg?”

And yeah, Jesus, saying it made it so much worse. But John wasn’t saying no, wasn’t discounting the possibility yet, and that was the worst of all.

Sherlock merely glared, rather than dignify John’s failure to catch on by responding.

So, that was it then: get himself off with his own hand, or use Sherlock’s leg before Sherlock finished eating and passed out.

Fuck it all.

John tried very hard not to think about what he was doing, but he straddled Sherlock’s knees (fucking hell) and lined himself up with a not-unattractive muscle in Sherlock’s thigh. Bit of rearranging to get his cock at the right angle, so it was sliding in nice parallel to Sherlock’s skin, and then: thrust.

It wasn’t . . . bad, exactly. There was friction. Skin. In time, there would be sweat. John could feel Sherlock’s warmth, watch his eyes, and hear the approving noises Sherlock made behind his mouthful of curry. Every few thrusts, Sherlock would raise his hips a bit, and the increase in pressure was lovely—unexpected and collaborative.

But the friction wasn’t quite doing it. John needed a bit of pressure on all sides. A tunnel to thrust into.

“Open your thighs,” said John, his voice getting rough again. He reached for the lube, rubbed some along his shaft and along the inside of Sherlock’s thighs. Then he guided himself between, had Sherlock press his legs together (“Tighter. Yes, perfect, Sherlock.”), and started thrusting again.

It wasn’t quite like anal sex. It still wasn’t tight enough, even with Sherlock’s lean, hard muscles against him and those pretty legs shut as tightly as they’d go. But it was pressure all along his shaft, and the lube eased the way. His thighs slapped against the base of Sherlock’s as he bounced, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of Sherlock’s torso, keeping himself upright enough that he didn’t get in the way of Sherlock eating.

In short order, John was panting and mumbling nonsense. “Fuck, this is . . . should’ve tried it sooner. Doesn’t even h-hurt your arse. God, it’s—ahhh. Yes. Sh-Sherlock.”

Sherlock might’ve been laughing, if he weren’t still eating. “Does it feel good, John? Nice and wet? Are my leg muscles . . . hard?” He was mocking John, chuckling softly between bites, but John wasn’t looking at his face, and was too far gone to be bothered. “Mmm,” Sherlock said, commenting on how good it was to taste food after going without it for a while, knowing that John’s sex-addled brain would interpret it as approval for something else entirely.

“Oh, Jesus fuck. Sherlock, you’re . . . yes. Tighter. Like that, yes. Perfect.”

Sherlock wasn’t even doing anything apart from pressing his knees together and occasionally lifting up his hips to meet John’s crazy thrusts. But hey, if John wanted to mumble praise at him, Sherlock was hardly going to complain. In fact, he seized the opportunity to use his own voice (muffled by the curry) to . . . help John along, a bit.

“John,” he said, letting his breath catch in a startling imitation of himself when he was aroused for real. “Yes, John, please. There, keep doing that. Yes. Yes.”

“Sherlock. Oh, anything for you. Fuck. Is that—?”

“Yes, John, ooh. You’re so good at this. So good, John.”

“Oh, God. Yes. You like that, Sherlock? Like my . . . ung, cock?”

Sherlock made a mental note to recite that dialogue back to John whenever Sherlock needed a favour;John was embarrassing himself, and there was no way Sherlock was going to let him live it down. He’d be tactful enough to keep this story within the walls of their flat, of course—as long as John did everything Sherlock asked. He wasn’t totally unreasonable.

He sighed. He didn’t mind John using him like this, but it seemed to be taking a long time. Sherlock was almost full, and that was starting to make him sleepy. He was willing to make a lot of sacrifices for John, but letting John keep him awake after a case was not one of those sacrifices. Time to help things along then.

Shovelling a big, last bite of food into his mouth, Sherlock put the empty container of curry aside and brought his hands to John’s skin, dancing across the tanned planes of his shoulders (one with a scar; traumatic and beautiful), neck, cheeks. (He’d never admit it aloud, but he liked the way his own pale hands looked against John’s darker skin. Opposites, but still complementary. Fitting—like every other part of them.)

“John. My John. Look at you.” Sherlock temporarily forgot that he was supposed to be mocking John. His voice came out . . . sincere. Someone overly-sentimental might even call it ‘heartfelt.’

John’s eyes had been alternating between closing shut in concentration and staring at the place where his cock slid so nice between Sherlock’s thighs. Now, they raised themselves to Sherlock’s face—curious, wide-open eyes, taking in this rare glimpse of earnestness. His hips still moved, but his expression stalled.

And then his hips stuttered, and he was coming, gasping, chin falling back down against his chest, eyes shutting as his body strained itself to produce a second orgasm.

He didn’t register Sherlock’s hands in his hair until after he’d collapsed, head tucking itself into the nook between Sherlock’s neck and chest. He groaned, recalling the previous few minutes, and realizing how idiotic he’d sounded.

“Oh, God. Tell me I didn’t say that stuff out loud.”

Sherlock chuckled, his baritone laugh sending a pleasant vibration into John’s cheek. “I think Scotland Yard would be very interested to know that it turns you on to watch people eat their dinners.”

“Stop it.”

“Or is it only curry that affects you?”

John punched him with all the strength of a wet noodle. “I hate you.”

Sherlock kissed his forehead. “No, you don’t.”

A sigh. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“Can I sleep now, without you humping my body?” Without looking, John knew the bastard was grinning.

“I take it back. I really do hate you.”

“Good night, John.” Sherlock tilted his nose forward, burying it—along with his hands—in John’s hair. He closed his eyes, and began to drift off.

John was listening to Sherlock’s heartbeat, soaking in his warmth, already drifting.

“‘Night, Sh’lock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for being so patient! As always, please feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comments. I'd love to hear what you have to say.


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